Happy Easter AND April Fool’s Day! Hey, does this mean this is the day Jesus comes back and says, “Ha ha! I was just kidding!”?

In keeping with April Fool’s Day, I will refrain from being my usual serious, reverent, and solemn self. I can only hope my reader(s), and God, forgive me. Although I will admit that at least three of the stated facts in this blog entry are true. Probably.

The picture above is a panorama shot of St. Peter’s Square, which houses St. Peter’s Basilica, which is built on top of St. Peter’s tomb, which was right next to St. Peter’s Grog & Gift Shop until it went out of business.

Just to reiterate, don’t worry, as a former Catholic I’m fully licensed to poke a little fun at the church. Besides, my Confirmation name was Peter, so that gives me further license to do so (it’s true, look it up in the Vatican Chronicles). If you’re not or never were Catholic and you don’t know what Confirmation is, don’t worry. I never did either. I just picked Pete’s name because the nun was looming over me and it was the only apostle’s name I could remember at the time. I was about to say “Thorton Fogbottom,” but this nun was a professional loomer and carried a metal ruler on her hip in a holster, so I thought better of it.

The basilica (so-named because the only thing the laborers were given to eat was basil) is a massive structure, and is the place where you can watch the pope come out and give a sermon, wave his hand to the crowds, check on the weather, or hang his laundry. The first time I was here, my late wife Dolly and I were present when Pope Benedict gave a sermon. It was in German, or Italian, or some third-world language like that. It reminded me of the days when Catholic Mass was all spoken in Latin, which meant going to church was great for an hour’s worth of daydreaming. Anyway, seeing the Pope like we did would have been a lot cooler if Francis had been the Pope at the time, he’s a much more happenin’ dude.

Trivia: Francis and Benedict are roomies. Francis eschews the trappings of Popedom and prefers living humbly, so he rooms with Benny and presumably watches over him a bit since he’s 90 years old. You gotta love a leader like that. Where can we get one?

The picture on the upper left is the Tiber river, so named because Julius Caesar’s little nephew couldn’t pronounce tiger. Which was sad, because “Tiber! Tiber!” were his last words just before the tiger ate him, but no one paid him any mind because no one knew what a tiber was.

You don’t get just any average run-of-the-mill trivia on baldsasquatch.com.

The other pictures are from inside St. Peter’s Square, which features an Egyptian Obelisk to commemorate the only two Catholics who have ever been from Egypt. Made of red granite, it stands 25.5 meters tall, which is 84 feet for those of you who still can’t convert meters to feet in a flash, like we now can. (Well, with the help of an app anyway.) It’s so tall I couldn’t get the very top of it in the picture.

The obelisk was originally erected in Egypt in the city of Heliopolis (where helicopters were invented) by an unknown pharaoh, who is now also known as The Guy Who Built a Monument Impressive Enough to be Moved to the Vatican But No One Knows His Name Anyway. That puts a bit of a damper on any hope that your accomplishments will ever be remembered, huh? It dates back hundreds of years before Christ. I can hardly believe it was transferred from Egypt so long ago, because I can’t imagine moving that thing without a crane and a supertanker. The ancients had magic, I’m sure of it. Although I do wonder how many ships are on the bottom of the Mediterranean, held down by an 80 foot tall piece of granite. “I thought it would float!” were the last words of many an engineer back then.

Once inside, you’re treated to a view of a dead pope, who died many hundreds of years ago from asphyxiation while trying out the box. No one said they were all geniuses. The basilica is the largest church in the world, continuously thumbing its domey nose at the desires of various TV evangelists who would give their left Lear Jet to have the biggest instead.

We climbed the stairs to the top of the basilica; here Carolyn catches her breath after sprinting up all 1,130 steps (320 in metric). There are another 231 to get to the very top for the outside views (both of those latter numbers are true- I looked it up). The walls are lined with mosaic tiles. The inside of the path is lined with a metal grate to prevent cell phones from traveling through someone’s head and tearing the hell out of their alimentary canal. That happened twice, and it rectum both.

While the enormity of the place pretty much grabs you by the throat as soon as you walk in, it’s only by being up at the top and looking down that you realize how big it really is. The basilica, not your throat.

But you know, God takes up a lot of space, so they kind of had to do it.

You don’t get this kind of shot of the inside of the dome from the ground floor. Unless you have a telephoto lens and are a lot better photographer than me, which includes just about everyone, even the dead pope, and every Japanese.

That’s a long way down. Just sayin’.

 

Moving on from St. Peter’s, we ventured into the Vatican Museum, which includes the Sistine Chapel, which you may have heard of because it was featured on an episode of The Simpsons. The crowds have been coming ever since.

We took a tour with a guide, who kept telling us it would only be two more minutes before we could go in. “Two more minutes!” Ten minutes later: “Two more minutes!” I photoshopped an extra finger on my hand just to be polite in this post, because I’d finally had it with her after the 21st time she said it.

To give her grace, the crowds were ginormous. If we wouldn’t have booked a tour, we would have been one of the Great Unwashed standing outside for hours on end. Instead, we were the Pretty Good And Had a Shower.

Welcome to the Vatican Museum.

To borrow from Emerson, Lake & Palmer, one of whom may have been Catholic:

Welcome back, my friends
To the show that never ends
We’re so glad you could attend
Come inside! Come inside!

The hordes of The Great Unwashed who managed to make it past the door. The museum should have been built in Sardinia, because you feel like a sardine everywhere you go.

At least our group took a shower in the morning, even David the Robot. His ear implant gives him special powers, such as having less hair than me, which is quite an accomplishment.

Did you know the church anointed the pinecone a symbol of fertility? Leave it to the Catholics to pick the most asexual thing it could find for that. They defaced the statues by covering up all the genitals with fig leaves and coffee cups, and then named the pinecone a symbol of fertility. That thing would hurt no matter where you put it! They weren’t just good at guilt, they made people terrified to have sex!

Guido: “Um, darling, this is for fertility.” Darling: “Get the hell away from me with that thing!”

This is what they called the rhythm method.

It was a sin to leave any plaster showing on a ceiling.

But I’ll admit the artwork is pretty gorgeous. This is named, “The Riot After St. Peter’s Grog & Gift Shop Closed Down.”

This statue survived The Great Genital Cover-up, although he did lose a member. Of his fan club. That’s what I meant. He lost a member of his fan club. Yeah that’s it. On the other hand (literally), maybe that’s what in his left hand.

This is Harpo. She stood next to Groucho. The sculptor got good marx for his work.

This is an actual bathtub. I ordered an exact replica from eVaticanBay. I’m sure Carolyn will figure out where to squeeze it in, she’s an expert at that kind of stuff.

These guys had fun throwing grapes at the crowds below. Actually, it’s a painting. Fooled ya, huh? And it’s all 2D; you don’t even need glasses for the 3D effect.

Here’s another bathtub for those sad times when you have to take one all alone. Plus they used them as tombs, true story. At least you went down with a clean corpse!

This is a commemoration of the first time someone tried to use a snake to clean out the bathtub drain. It looks awfully similar to one of my experiences trying to do the same, except I wasn’t naked… although the similarities in our physiques are quite striking.

These statues blow the myth all to hell about walking like an Egyptian. Of course, with all that weight on their heads they couldn’t walk very pharaoh.

This is what a sardine can would look like from the inside if it were a Catholic one.

In the biz, this is what we call a “two dome shot.”

Here’s a one-dome-shot.

By law, no building can be taller than St. Peter’s dome in the historic center. A 30-floor skyscraper in Rome named Torre Eurosky is actually taller (true story, I know you don’t believe most of what I’m writing here, and I can’t imagine why, but this is true). I guess it’s far enough away to steer clear of the law. However, the architect is now going to hell.

They were having a 2 for 1 sale on Pope memorabilia. In a more serious vein, one of the things we’ve noticed in Europe is that most cars are grey, white, or black. Note that there are only a few red ones, and that’s it. I’m not sure why that is. Our next car is going to be purple. But only if I buy it when Carolyn is in the states.

These were all taken from atop the dome. Because of the aforementioned law, this is one of the best vantage points for a view of Rome. I just wish all those people would have gotten out of the way so we could see it!

And now, the coup de gras for our Very Vatical Vatican Visit: the Sistine Chapel.

Unfortunately, photography is prohibited within the Chapel. This is due to, of all things, Nippon TV in Japan getting the rights to all imagery in exchange for ponying up millions for its restoration (again, this is true). Which is ironic because the Japanese have been voted The Most Likely To Take 300 Pictures of the Same Boring Thing While Traveling sixty-three years running (okay, that one may not be true, but only because there’s no award by that name). Of course, now the internet comes along where you can find all the pictures you want of the chapel. I wonder which Japanese executive had to commit harakiri over that deal?

But to still support this arrangement, various guards in the room are constantly shouting “NO PHOTO! NO VIDEO!” as well as “SSSSSHHHH!” when the masses get too noisy. They’re not often invited to weddings.

That said, you can imagine this intrepid rule-breaker thumbing his nose at such conventions (especially after I found out about it being all about copyright law, which meant I wasn’t going to hell for surreptitiously snapping photos). So I cradled my iPhone near my waistline, even using the back camera so the front of the phone would be facing the ground, as if I was only admiring my iPhone case. Since I was trained in spycraft back in the ’80s, I knew all the tricks.

Unfortunately, not all of the attempts turned out so well.

Sometimes my thumb got in the way, and sometimes my head, which looks a lot like a bearded thumb here. Plus I took a shot of the most boring section of ceiling possible. It isn’t easy to bring my loyal reader(s) illegal photographs!

And if you think these are bad, you should see the ones I deleted!

At last! Success! I got this one as we were leaving, figuring I could scurry out the exit before one of the guards took me down with a taser and a chokehold.

Carolyn followed my lead with her own shot of the wall. I shouted, “She did it too!” as we ran out the door.

Here’s another piece of trivia from our guide: When the powers-that-be finally saw what Michelangelo had created, they were a bit uncomfortable with all the nudity. After his death, they painted over as many of the “private parts” as they could. But they didn’t paint over the images on the ceiling because it was just too high for them. Just goes to show, you gotta get high to appreciate nudity!

I’d love to say I took this shot as well, but I just stole it off the internet. Ha ha! Stupid Japan TV!

I stole this paragraph from Wikipedia too:

The Sistine Chapel (/ˌsɪstiːn ˈtʃæpəl/; Latin: Sacellum Sixtinum; Italian: Cappella Sistina [kapˈpɛlla siˈstiːna]) is a chapel in the Apostolic Palace, the official residence of the Pope, in Vatican City. Originally known as the Cappella Magna, the chapel takes its name from Pope Sixtus IV, who restored it between 1477 and 1480. Since that time, the chapel has served as a place of both religious and functionary papal activity. Today it is the site of the Papal conclave, the process by which a new pope is selected. The fame of the Sistine Chapel lies mainly in the frescos that decorate the interior, and most particularly the Sistine Chapel ceiling and The Last Judgment by Michelangelo. Photographs of the chapel are prohibited by copyright. If anyone is caught taking videos or photographs, or even if evidence comes to light afterwards, the penalties can be severe. If you know of any violations of this law, a generous reward is offered. Please report them immediately to http://www.vaticancopyrightlawscofflawsaregoingtohellsohelpthemontheirway.com.

 

 

 

We took our first ever flight on budget airline RyanAir. Other than the wind whistling through the plane and the view of the ground 30,000 feet below peeking through the wooden slats, it wasn’t bad, especially for the 150 euro per person fare. Actually, the only thing that seemed discountish is that the airline is given the worst place in the terminal. The line through security was long, but I admit it did move pretty fast (they can’t afford X-Ray machines, so they just ask each passenger, “Are you a terrorist?” If you give them the right answer, you get right through).

Italy is a bit messed up politically and financially, and much has been written about garbage and potholes there, at least in the articles about garbage and potholes. We saw our share of both, but because it wasn’t summer, it really had no aroma. It is just a… Roma.

However, they did screw up our Door of the Day with their graffiti. There is lots of graffiti all over Europe, even ancient ones in Pompeii. Apparently it’s a cultural thing that spans over thousands of years. Of course, in Pompeii it’s spelled graffitii.

Rome is also known as The Eternal City, The Capital of the World, The City of Love, The City of the Seven Hills, and The City With The Colosseum Plus Some Other Things To See. We also know that all roads lead to Rome, and we should do as they do while there (assuming the ancients ate a lot of gelato), and that it wasn’t built in a day. However, the Colosseum was built in only eight years, so they obviously had quicker bureaucracies back then. Plus slave labor. I don’t know how we accomplish anything anymore without slave labor. Although working for the minimum wage comes damn close.

Any trip to Rome has to center around the Colosseum. Also (and originally) known as the Flavian Amphitheatre, it is still the largest amphitheatre ever built, and could hold up to about 80,000 spectators, or 8,000 sumo wrestlers. Completed in 80 AD, it has withstood the test of time as well as the pillaging of the barbarians. By the way, the word “barbarians” comes from the term “bearded ones.” So I had to keep with tradition, being a barbarian myself, and chipped off a piece of the Colosseum to use as a momento in our living room. Not really, I just stole its soul with photographs.

Still, the Colosseum cannot fail to impress, as it was intended to do 2,000 years ago.

We met up with a group of friends from the US as well as Holland, which is also known as The Netherworld, which is where the word “Dutch” came from. Yeah, I know it’s confusing, but dam. In fact, lots of dams. I think they come up with all those names to hide from the barbarians. “Holland? Naw, this is, uh, The Netherlands. Yeah, that’s it. Holland is way over there, just take a left at the dike. Am I Netherlandish? Oh no, I’m uh, Dutch. Yep. Just a little Dutchman, got nothing to do with Holland. Just go that way, there’s a whole bunch of gold and gelato over there I hear.”

The first picture below was taken with some great relief after one part of our group found the other part, despite the effort we put in to losing them. We pretended to be happy they found us, especially in group photos.

Once gathered, we took a tour of the place with a guide, who informed us of several common misconceptions. For one, the emperor didn’t use thumbs up or thumbs down to indicate the fate of a gladiator. That’s just Hollywood. They speculate that it was probably an open palm vs. a closed fist. The gladiators were investments, so it wasn’t common for an injured one to be given the fist. Also, Christians were not fed to the lions there, although prisoners were made to “battle” various animals with their arms tied behind their backs. The animals usually won.

And gladiators generally didn’t sport variations of Russell Crowe’s physique, they tended to be short and fat (which is pretty much the way he looks now, so I guess he was told all about it after the movie). The reason for this was that it made it easier for them to survive sword cuts, the important organs being buried beneath fat and all. Accordingly, it’s also when McDonalds was invented, although back then they called it MacinaDonaldos. One chubby gladiator could put down three Grande Mackos, a large order of Italian Fries, and a grape shake without hardly belching afterward. Otherwise, Gladiator is all Hollywood.

Another piece of trivia was the way they handled public toilets. A dozen or more men and women all sat in a row, and shared the same sponge to clean their backsides. We all agreed that the worst job in the world would be the sponge-cleaner (the second worst just being anyone who had to go while in the Colosseum). The poor soul with that job was usually a slave, or one of emperor Trumpini’s former cabinet members.

Carolyn wanted to take a picture with the gladiators who wander around outside the Colosseum hoping to bilk the tourists. I fondled a fiver in my pocket and figured “why not?” After the photo session, he nonchalantly asked for 20 euros. In response, I un-nonchalantly suggested some creative places where he could stick his sword. Anyway, I threw the five and a couple of coins at him after hearing all about his starving children, for which we were rewarded with a stream of insults as we walked away. They’ve had a lot of problems with those guys, so they have been banned from walking too near the Colosseum. Throw ’em to the lions I say! At least now that we got our picture.

On the walk to the Colosseum, we found a field where they grow red-headed stepchildren. It was the end of the season, so the rest apparently had already been picked.

While there’s a military presence there, a lot of this is the fact that they’ve closed down the boulevards next to the Colosseum to cut down on the exhaust fumes discoloring the monument. And since Italian drivers will drive just about anywhere, the automatic rifles serve as a pretty good deterrent if they try it there.

Next to the Colosseum is Palatine Hill, which coincidentally is the name of the street where we first lived after our family moved to Oregon. Our house wasn’t quite as elaborate as some of the buildings below, although it did have a pool, a zip line, and a trampoline, all of which our seven-kid family managed to destroy within a year. Each of the kids eventually grew up to be barbarians, except our lone sister, who only had a stray hair or two on her chin. Actually, she often still does since she’s in her sixties, except now they’re both grey. That’s only in here to check to see if she’s reading this.

The Arch of Constantine is one of many arches around Rome, which were built if a war resulted in over 10,000 enemy deaths. I’m not sure who did the counting. And if you were the 10,001st enemy,  could you form your hands into a “T’ symbol and call time?

The tour of Palatine Hill is best taken with a guide because so many of the buildings are gone. But it’s still impressive and amazing to imagine yourself in those times, walking around the place, hoping no one notices that you’re from 2,000 years in the future. You might be given away by the roll of toilet paper in your pocket, so bring your own sponge.

The picture above (by Cassius Ahenobarbus, who you’ve never heard of, but who wants credit for the picture) shows how the place looked before time and the Bearded Ones whittled it down to the skeleton. The Circus Maximus is completely gone, but it’s where they raced their chariots, ala Ben Hur. It held upwards of 150,000 spectators, which dwarfs even the Colosseum. Since seven is Rome’s lucky number, the races consisted of seven laps. Hence, the seven dwarfs. All stories lead to Rome.

The area surrounding the Colosseum is rather festive, with big crowds, street musicians, and someone blowing bubbles all over the place. Anything to make a euro! Speaking of which, the euro needs a single syllable nickname like “buck.” I’m going with ‘Ro. Anything to make a ‘ro!

Beggars are fairly common around Rome. Generally they attempt to look as pitiful as possible, although I think a lot of them just take naps out there and wake up to happily find some coins in their hat. In our first foray to the Colosseum, we were accosted by a gypsy who knew so little English she didn’t even know what “no” meant. And I delivered a shouted “NO!” on my third attempt at communication. I had to practically peel her off Carolyn because she just kept coming, clawing at her. Afterward, Carolyn noticed the zipper on her little purse, which had been tucked “safely” under her arm, was opened. We were just seconds away from losing a credit card or cash. I have often thought about hiding an opened mouse trap in a purse while walking in cities like Rome. But then I know one of us would forget and hilarity –bolstered by a stream of cussing– would ensue.

After a long day of hiking around Rome, one needs to clean one’s unmentionables. However, one does not often find a dryer in an apartment in Rome, so one must make do with what one is given, in this case, the towel warmers in the bathroom. Hey, they were clean. I think.

It is pretty easy to commit suicide in Rome. Just sayin’.

But we’ll seal this entry with a kiss under the “A” for Anderson. Holy moley, I’ve only covered the first part of our adventure in Rome so far. We still have the rest of Rome, plus Florence, Naples, Pompeii, and Venice to go! No wonder we’re so tired! I don’t know how those guys conquered all that and more!

There is quite a bit of (well deserved) public outrage after the killing of seventeen people at the high school in Parkland. Everyone wants to see this fixed, but, as usual in America, the proposed solutions are polarized between two camps.

A few days ago, I engaged in an online debate with a couple of guys who are very pro-gun. I enjoy spirited debates, not because I am trying to convince anyone of anything, but because I learn so much about how other people think, and I also admit to it being fun for me. Anyway, it provided me with some insight as to why some people believe that having more guns than people in the United States is still a little light in the gun department.

The central arguments for keeping guns and gun laws the way they are apparently include:

1. History teaches us that governments will always become more oppressive, so we need an armed populace to defeat them when they try and take over militarily.
2. Anything other countries do to solve any problem is of no consequence simply because they are not the United States. Part of the argument is cultural difference, and part of it is size difference.
3. The second amendment is irrevocable and unchangeable.
4. They like guns.

In response to number one, I asked this simple question: “Since firearms were first invented, when in the history of the U.S., England, Canada, and Australia have guns been necessary to keep the government at bay?”

I received no reply, because of course, it’s never happened.

I use those other countries because they are most similar to us socially, we speak the same language, and we’ve all been around for hundreds of years, cumulatively for over a thousand years. And yet the fear of Pol Pot reincarnating in the United States is enough for them to insist we must have guns to resist this future tyranny, as unlikely as it actually is. As a result, Americans shooting each other more than anyone is an unfortunate byproduct of preventing a military takeover or coup or whatever, even though that’s never happened in our 242 year existence, nor in similar countries during that span. Somehow the U.S. is the only country to insist the solution is to have more guns, while the others are far more peaceful than the U.S. and lack just as many military takeovers.

On to number two: I just want to say that my experience in moving to Europe is that We is You, and You is Us. Aside from language and minor cultural differences, such as preferring no ice in their drinks, not refrigerating eggs or milk, not being particularly keen on tipping, not shooting each other very often, never being willing to trade their socialized medicine and educational systems for the U.S. versions for all the tea in China (and the Portuguese are the ones responsible for turning English into the tea-drinking maniacs they are), and they would go into a sugar coma just from thinking about drinking a 64 ounce Big Gulp. For my European friends, that’s nearly 2 liters of soda pop. Intended for one person in one sitting. I’m not kidding. They even have a 128 ounce (3785ml) version. The recommended daily sugar intake for a man is 36 grams, and 20 for a woman (sorry ladies, you’re already too sweet I guess). The Super Big Gulp has 80 grams. Wow. I wish this whole debate were about whether you should drink Big Gulps, it would be a lot easier one.

Anyway, the point is that aside from these minor differences, Western European culture is virtually the same as it is in the U.S. So the idea that we can’t learn from them, much less understand that they have a lot more experience with shooting in their neighborhoods solely due to World War I and II, is just plain silly. You’d think if guns were the answer, Europeans would have armed themselves to the teeth to prevent another Hitler. Interestingly, they went completely the other direction, and are far safer for it.

I’ve been to Japan a handful of times, and while they don’t have guns either, I’d say their culture was different enough that it’s not worth trying to bring the reasons for that mindset into the American culture. But Western Europe is a whole different story.

I would also argue that the culture of the United States in 1791, when the second amendment was passed, is far, far different than almost any developed country in the world today. There was slavery and women couldn’t vote, for starters. And the U.S. was fresh off a war of independence from Britain, certainly making them pretty sensitive about fighting to free the land from tyranny.

I have also heard a million times that you can’t compare any country’s success in anything to the U.S. because they’re smaller. That’s such a specious argument because what it does is eliminate every country in the world except India and China; the U.S. has the third largest population in the world. Of course, that doesn’t stop those same arguers from insisting that China should adopt America’s democracy and morals. Irony abounds.

More importantly, the EU is very similar to the US in that even though it is formed by separate countries instead of states, they’re all connected economically with the same currency, they are regulated from a central authority, they are free to cross borders at any time, and can live in any place they want.

The two have roughly the same GDP, and the EU has a larger population. So if the EU does something, such as socialized medicine or free college, you can’t dismiss that as irrelevant because they’re smaller, or socially much different, because they’re neither. My guess is that some might respond, “Well, they’re bigger.” In which case the only way you can compare and learn from any other country is if there is an alternate universe where you can look at the same exact country and hope they do things a little different.

The whole argument of “you can’t compare” or “we can’t learn from other countries” sounds to me like someone telling his neighbor, “Yes, I see you eliminated all your gophers with that scheme, but it wouldn’t apply to my yard because it’s larger and I have more weeds.” Okay, then live with the gophers. Or in this case, the murders.

As for the second amendment, it was an amendment. Its very presence proves these documents can be changed. And I would remind people that back when it was written, everyone had pretty much similar levels of armaments as everyone else, even the government (maybe except for cannons, which hardly compare as weapons of mass destruction). Today’s governments have tanks and missiles and drones and satellites and training and so on. Ironically, the same people who are so hellbent on pouring more money into what is already the world’s largest military are usually the same people who want to arm themselves in case it all comes back to bite them.

Wow.

As for liking guns, I get it. I own some myself. But I still want sensible laws and restrictions on who can buy them. We have to jump through a fair amount of hoops to get a driver’s license. Why? Because cars can kill. Hmm, I think there’s a comparison there somewhere.

I know there are more pro-gun arguments, such as it’s already too late because there are more guns than people in the US, but my point is that all of our minds should be open to learning and certainly having civil discussion on the matter, with the subject at hand being allowed to be on the table. America is a Republic that mostly functions as a democracy. If the majority of Americans desire more gun control, why is it the minority, led by the NRA, allowed to impose their will on the rest of us?

Anyway, my main contribution to the debate is to point out that the rest of the world is not as different as many Americans might think, and that we can learn from everyone, including those who live in other countries, perhaps even including shithole countries!

Feel free to post some counterarguments– we need this debate!

 

First of all, I don’t hate America. I just love grabby headlines.

This post is actually in response to a family member who recently berated me for criticizing the US too often on this blog. I was told I should just stick to offering up a travelogue. Why the world needs another one of those, I don’t know, but there it was in the suggestion box.

I’ll admit I’ve offered up many comparisons after moving over here, and they don’t always reflect well on the US. But the truth is the bulk of them have been noted mostly because what I’ve experienced has been something of a surprise. I figured if I’ve been surprised, even after having the good fortune to have traveled the world a little before this move, then other people might be surprised to hear about them as well.

I also have a personal conviction whereby I refuse to believe in default patriotism. The place I was born was an accident of birth, not a choice I made. To me, being proud of something I had absolutely nothing to do with seems a little silly. I also happen to believe that patriotism is neck and neck with religion for being the ideology most responsible for creating worldwide misery. World War II would not have happened without rampant patriotism, because that’s largely what fueled World War I, and the second war was simply the finale of what was actually one long war. The result of it all was that Europe decided to work on ways to avoid such catastrophes in the future, which ultimately resulted in the European Union. The EU has actually done a very good job of making its people feel more attached to humanity in general, not just those who were born in the same country as themselves (the über patriotic politicians who refuse to learn from history notwithstanding).

In addition, you can see anything we have seen anytime you want just by doing a Google search. If you want to see what Sesimbra looks like, just type “Sesimbra” into the search engine. I’m not a good enough photographer to add much of anything to what is already out there. But I do have thoughts and observations, and anyone who knows me can surely attest to the fact that I’m very open and willing to share them. Not out of smugness or look-what-I-can-do-and-you-can’t-edness, I just share, that’s all. And I do think that an American moving to Portugal is uncommon enough, much less done by someone who’s willing to publicly share his or her experiences, to warrant some interest by those who don’t know anyone else who has done the same.

But the main reason I apparently said one thing too many for at least one of my readers is that I’ve truly been surprised at what I see now that I’m looking from the outside in, and surprise begets repetition. “Did you see that? Really, did you see that? Hey, you, did you see that? Wow!” To the extent that I’ve already expressed much of my surprise, I’ve taken the criticism to heart and am endeavoring to tone that down a little. But this will never be just another travelogue, and I will never refrain from criticizing where I see fit, mostly because I believe every bad circumstance that has ever occurred in the world deserves more criticism. As soon as criticism is eliminated, things like Hitler or Nixon happen.

Like most Americans, I had a worldview that was greatly impacted by the continuous stream of propaganda and societal agreements that something is the way it is simply because we all agree that it is.

As a result, when we moved to Portugal, I expected it to be less comfortable. I expected some goods to be cheaper, but that we’d have to make do with not having comforts we were used to having in the US. The first time we went to a medical clinic, I expected to wait eight hours for an appointment with a doctor less capable than the ones in the US. I expected Europeans to be less polite than Americans because I already knew they don’t smile at strangers, they’re rather rude in queues, and they drive like bats out of hell. I also expected the standard of living to be significantly less than that of the average American, especially in a poorer country like Portugal.

I was willing to endure all this, including the agony of beating up my aging brain by learning a new language, just to explore and see the world. Besides, my blood is decidedly Western European, according to a DNA test I took. So this is actually my homeland as it were, so maybe it was also a desire to see where I’m actually from.

I also expected that the populace would be laboring under a system that was less “free” than what America enjoys. After all, America is the Land of the Free, right?

Turns out that recent studies (I’ve read several) show that actually the US is quite a ways down the list of countries in terms of just freedom.

Let that sink in for a second. America no longer leads the world in freedom.

The following will surely be counterintuitive for a lot of people, but the left-leaning governments are the ones that offer the most freedom for their people. I’ll leave it to others to figure out the whys and wherefores of that, but I’ve seriously been shocked to realize I’ve moved from the Land of the Free to the Land of the Freer. I figured all the crime and shootings and lopsided wealth were crosses we had to bear for living in a land focused on freedom. Turns out I was wrong. We’re all wrong about a lot of things we believe, and the only way to find out which ones they are is to have an open mind, listen to people who have done things you haven’t, experience as much as you can yourself, and try to run every piece of information you encounter outside the lenses of your own preconceived notions.

In my opinion, if you haven’t changed your mind about anything remotely significant in a while, you’re not thinking. Because if you think you already know it all and everything you believe is surely correct, then you might as well just kick the bucket now, because living is growing, and growing comes from learning. Besides, you’d be dead wrong. Nobody in the world has a belief set that is 100% correct. It’s simply impossible. That’s what makes us human.

I’ve been continuously surprised, shocked even, at what I’ve learned from this move. I’ve discovered that Europe is in fact significantly ahead of so many things that at times the US looks like a third-world country in comparison. That’s a little stronger than I intend, but the reality is that we’ve been told over and over that America is the greatest country in the world. So when you find out it’s really not, at least in so very many ways, it’s a little startling, and you tend to go on and on about it especially if you’re a sharer.

I was also taken aback at a recent exchange on Facebook after I shared a fellow traveler’s blog who observed many of the same things I had.

The Facebook comment was, “I am fortunate enough to have traveled, but I try not to be smug about it.” So I went back and re-read the original post. For the life of me I can’t see any smugness in it anywhere. Just another person sharing their observations after experiencing something for the first time. I actually became angry, because by throwing the smug word around you’re essentially calling for people who experience something new to shut the hell up. “Don’t give us your observations, we just want to see the pictures. Or nothing at all because we don’t want to hear that where we live might not really be quite as nice in comparison. We’re stuck here, so quit being so smug about traveling around.”

I just think it’s sad when people aren’t interested in hearing about anything someone else has done. I also think it’s tragic when people share their thoughts and feelings and experiences but are slammed for doing so. I’m not traveling for anyone else at all, but I don’t mind sharing what I’ve experienced because that’s simply who I am, not because I have any agenda.

But I also realized that if someone is reading something and expects smugness, for example, then smugness is what they’ll perceive, no matter what was written. A writer can only control a certain percentage of what someone takes in. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written an email only to find out the response to it was completely different than what I thought I wrote. I’ve even read back the exact words out loud, only to hear, “Well, what you meant was…” Um, no, what I meant was exactly what the words said. The undercurrent is what you brought to the table. That and maybe I’m just a shitty writer.

I read an article a long time ago that listed the world’s riskiest professions. I was surprised to see that they included “writers” on the list. After some contemplation on that, I realized why that may be the case. Because when you write something down, you’re exposing the world to your innermost thoughts. You’re opening yourself up for criticism and ridicule. Once they’re in print, you can’t deny having written them. It’s easier, and safer, just to shut up. So most people do.

But adventurers don’t tend to play it safe or easy, and I’d say selling almost everything you own and moving to another country qualifies someone as at least a little bit of a risk taker. So I take the criticisms and any ridicule in stride. Obviously I’d much rather be showered with book contracts or win Pulitzer Prizes for what I write, especially if they have a category for Travel Blogs Read By Less Than Ten People, but you can’t opine about much of anything without being subject to ridicule and criticism. Just ask most of today’s newspeople.

Anyway, I’m just gonna keep doing what I do. Some of it is to memorialize. Some of it is to share what I’ve experienced, just because I’m a sharer, and that’s pretty much the only reason. Read it, or not, I don’t care. Frankly I usually have absolutely no idea if anyone does or not. The only thing I do know is that almost no one on my side of the family does (not counting our kids, even though most of them don’t either). They’re all pretty tired of me I suppose, or simply have no interest in anything beyond the borders of the state they live in. Fine with me. But I’m just gonna keep being me, which means posts with poorly-framed pictures, lame attempts at humor (I’m happy with hearing about one person’s light chuckle once in a while), observations, opinions, comparisons, and a sharing of the ongoing surprises that living in a land like Portugal offers us.

So there you have it. Next up: Poorly-framed pictures and lame attempts at humor from our next trip, which is Rome. For a few hundred euros, we get to fly to The Eternal City and take in all that history, which is one of the main reasons we did this, apparently in addition to alienating my family lol.

I returned home from grocery shopping today, and noticed what looked to be a long string or rope on our patio. I wondered how I’d missed it upon leaving, or whether the wind had blown it onto our property.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was moving on its own. A long skinny snake perhaps? Closer still. What the– it was a long line of caterpillars! They were moving very slowly. I’m not sure the leader knew where he was going; there’s not much to eat where they were headed. He did seem obsessed with our wall, so I named him Donald.

After shooting some pictures, I looked it up on the internet: the caterpillars appear to be Pine Processionary Caterpillars. They are poisonous with stingy hairs that cause skin irritation. They are also one of the most social caterpillars around (The Pine Processionary raves are legendary in the insect world)… or perhaps they just like the smell of each other’s butts. They live off living pine trees, eating vast amounts of pine needles and defoliating whole trees.

Which is all fine and good, but defoliate some trees in another lifetime bubs. I was originally going to set them free, but once I learned how destructive they are, they all departed this world as one big smush. Donald was the first to go. Sorry guys, this is what happens when you have a bad leader.

This site can’t do video, but there’s a video on Instagram and Facebook of the entire procession here.

So far, in the ten months we’ve been in this house, we haven’t had to mess with very many unwelcome creatures.

There’s the occasional mouse in the pool, and in the heat of summer we had our share of yellow jackets and hornets. As summer began to wane, the flies came out in force. One of my daily duties was to go outside and rack up the kills. That’s Mister Fly Killer to you.

Of course if an occasional spider is unlucky enough to wander into our home, Carolyn’s “spidar” tracks them down almost immediately, whereupon she calls upon the Big Artillery (aka, me, the B.A.), who turns them into a 2D version of their former selves via the bottom of a shoe, the side of a magazine, or if they look appetizing, a spatula.

(Some of them do get a reprieve by being thrown outside if Carolyn isn’t looking.)

So while we’re certainly not pest-free, we’re not all that bothered by too many critters. Thankfully, the ones that might be especially bothersome by arming themselves with stinging hairs also oblige us by trudging across the landscape in an easy-to-spot procession. Maybe Donald should rethink that military parade thing, huh?

Anyway, not on my watch, you multi-footed vermin! Not on my watch!

My two friends, Cale and John Lee, with whom I visited Porto and spent some time tooling around Lisbon, invited me to join them in Grenada, Spain after they decided I couldn’t possibly annoy them any more than I already did.

Not knowing anything at all about Grenada, I looked up their national anthem first (as of course we all do before visiting a new culture). I edited it for brevity and with just some slight changes):

Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, here I am in, the city of Grenada!

Spain is very entertaining, and they say we’ll have some fun if it stops raining.

I went hiking with Cale and John Lee, the many sights were fun to see.

I won’t remember most of them though, because my retinas are burned from the Flamenco show.

Flying in coach ain’t for sissies, especially if your legs are longer than most missies.

All the Spanish hate Americans, until we offer, Sangria from our jericans!

Just kidding, they love no one better. Muddah, Faddah kindly disregard this letter!

With apologies to Allan Sherman, who most of you probably have never heard of, but that from was a famous song of his from 1963, when I was only 34.

Grenada is a town in the southern part of Spain with a population of about a quarter million. It is perhaps most famous for the Alhambra, which is a Moorish citadel and palace. It was a key (and last) fortress during the Muslim occupation of the Iberian Peninsula, when they marched up from Africa to expand their empire. They were finally thrown out in 1492, at which point the Spanish decided to celebrate by sending Christopher Columbus off the edge of the earth. Everyone hated Columbus, so they were hoping he’d just fall off and go away. When that didn’t happen, they sent Amerigo Vespucci to map the land and name it after someone other than Columbus. I’m glad he used his first name, I’m not sure I’d want to be called a Vespuccian.

One of the things we of course had to do was go see a flamenco show.

It was purple.

Actually, it was interesting to observe the gypsy influence on the dance. The presentation felt as if we were sneaking a peek into a gypsy camp. Or maybe it was just that the woman looked like a gypsy, truly.

She provided the bulk of the entertainment as far as I’m concerned (they also had a singer who shouted his words at the top of his lungs, a pretty good guitar player, and a male dancer). This flamenco-stomping grandmother’s facial expressions were priceless. I am not kidding when I say she often made the exact same face as this one from Carolyn. I mean, the exact same expression. Except she was homely, and Carolyn is anything but. We weren’t allowed to take pictures until the end, my guess is they enforce that because by then she’s too tired to continue making faces.

It seems the point of flamenco is to stomp as hard on the floor as you possibly can. My guess is that the dance originated in poorer areas where there were lots of cockroaches. The winner was whoever stomped the most cockroaches.

Now it’s a dance. We really expected something more akin to the picture to the right, but maybe they just humor grandma every so often.

Anyway, we still had a good time, but next time I’m going to want a preview of the dancers. The man was pretty good, and it was all rather charming, but it wasn’t quite what I expected. The one we went to was called the best show in town. I’d hate to see the facial expressions of the lesser ones.

The Alhrambra was definitely the highlight of the visit (aside from the delightful company of my companions of course). It’s a vast complex with many beautiful gardens and awesome architecture. I’m always impressed with what they were able to build way back when without any technology.

Just to keep things simple, a slide show of the best of Alhambra is below this 3D image of the place. We’re the little dots on top of the tower looking at the view of a giant leather handbag.

 

We enlisted the aid of a tour guide to take us around the town. She wasn’t particularly good, but we did learn some things along the way, little of which I remember, partly because she was a little hard to understand, plus she kept mispronounciating all sorts of words.

We tipped her well anyway because she seemed a nice person.

She did tell one story I do recall that was kinda funny. Apparently the statue below was snuck –snuck!– onto the top of this building in the middle of the night without permission or permit. Ten years later, they still aren’t sure whether they’re going to leave it up or what to do with it.

In addition, apparently no one knows that the hell that is on the end of the horse’s tail. I think it might be flying horse poop. Or some kid hanging on for dear life. It’s a mystery.

Of course no blog post would be complete without presenting a Door of the Day. I have to carry the torch in Carolyn’s absence!

And here are some photos of the architecture around town:

Below is the view from our room at the apartment we stayed in. We were right in the middle of the action, which largely consists of shop after shop of Islamic-influenced clothing, art, and trinkets, all of them offering virtually the same thing at roughly the same prices. It’s like going to a grocery store where the fruit is nothing but bananas.

Below are some panoramic shots. The first one is of a Coliseum-esque structure and is completely round, I just twirled in a circle until I fell down from dizziness. What I won’t do to get my loyal readers a great shot!

Unfortunately, graffiti is ever present, even on historic sites:

Some of you will get it, some won’t.

After getting drunk on 18 sangrias and wandering around town, arm in arm, singing Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah! at the top of our lungs (to the bafflement of virtually everyone), we woke up the next morning, poured some sangria over our Cheerios, and then went our separate ways. I had a long layover in Madrid, and so decided to take the train into town to just wander around. Here are some of the sights:

Of course, no visit to Madrid would be complete without visiting the famous Trump Madrid Hotel. Oh, wait, something tells me this isn’t a Trump building. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the clue is there somewhere…

A big thing in Madrid, at least on this square, was a bunch of characters in various costumes, posing for a picture and a tip. This guy is holding himself up with one hand. He did it for hours! Some Spanish people are really strong!

Of course, occasionally you could peek behind the scenes. I guess you could say the guy in the yellow boots took it literally when he was told to get his head out of his ass.

This lady had the ingenious idea to paint herself up like she was made of sand. She just sat there with her eyes closed the entire time, even as these school kids came in for a closer look. She just kept napping. Not a bad gig: sit on a chair and nap all day while people put coins in your hat. Just slightly more work than my retirement, but it pays better.

I couldn’t help but get a kick out of the sign below. And of course I had to disprove the idea by physically entering. Maybe they mean it’s physically impossible to enter if you’re only 1.8 meters tall, which is about 4 gallons in metric.

The Madrid airport is yuuge. At 7,500 acres (52 centigrade in metric), it is the largest airport in Europe in terms of physical size. I had plenty of time when I got back there after visiting downtown Madrid, so I walked in a straight line for seven million centimeters, at which point I needed to call a cab to get back to my gate. Unfortunately, cabs don’t operate inside the terminal, so I just sat on someone’s cart who appeared to be headed my way. You can always get away with a lot when you don’t speak the native language.

So there you have it. For less than a couple hundred euros, I could fly from Lisboa to two beautiful cities in Spain. I’ll have to take Carolyn back to Madrid; I only skimmed the surface, and it’s quite a bustling city. More cosmopolitan than Lisboa, but I’ll still take Lisboa any day, because it’s cute enough to pinch its little Portuguese cheeks!

Back in July of last year (which was 2017 in case you’re reading this in 2098 after unearthing my old laptop from the strata of dirt beneath what used to be our house), Carolyn and I made the three hour drive up to Porto, where we we ended up just being drunk on port for four days and so don’t remember anything. Ok, I’m lying. We were only drunk for three days. The other day we were recovering from the first three so we could drive home.

Anyway, I made the trip again with two friends I originally met at Burning Man, Cale and John Lee. They drink a lot less port than Carolyn, so I barely got really, really drunk. Which was good because it was only a one-day trip and neither of them know how to drive on the opposite side of the road. Which is good because they don’t do that here, unless you’re on a motorcycle, or they’re passing you while continuously honking because you were only doing 100 miles an hour on the freeway.

After a nice sandwich lunch (it’s hard to find a bad meal in Portugal… unless I’m making dinner), our first stop was to a famous bookstore, called “Livraria Lello,” which means, “Yellow Bookstore.” Except not in Portuguese. That’s only in little kid language. Not sure what lello means otherwise. Maybe the founder’s kid named it when he was three after mistakenly thinking he was being asked what color his pee was when he was really being asked “What color it should it be?”

The signature decor was a massive staircase that went up all the way to the next floor, which, surprisingly, had more books.

It looked more like a library than a bookstore, except a library that prices all their books, isn’t quiet, has a massive staircase, doesn’t loan out books, doesn’t offer library cards, plus has an entrance fee. Although you get your fee back as a discount if you buy a book.

A lot of the books were actually in English (not that I can read that anymore), although of course the Portuguese language dominated most of the offerings. Nothing in French I could see, probably because they’re so rude. Nothing in Swahili either, because that’s only spoken in shithole countries by people living in huts.

I almost bought this book because it’s pretty funny, at least the parts I read after tearing open the protective plastic covering and setting off a bunch of alarms. But I didn’t buy it because I didn’t want to carry it around all day, plus I didn’t want to get mistaken for a doctor. Actually, Cale is a doctor, which made me feel better about his driving on the wrong side of the road. Anyway, I was intrigued with it because it highlights all the silly things people believe. And if you think whatever you believe is now so sophisticated and modern, trust me, in another 50 years they’ll print another edition. In that one they’ll highlight that some people actually ignored 98% of the world’s climatologists and thought the world’s climate is impossible to be affected by human beings. That, in addition to daily enemas, are the cornerstones of silly beliefs. Which is funny because with beliefs like that, who needs enemas?

It also had a stained glass skylight, which is perfect for a SWAT team to come crashing through if they used it in the movies, or someone steals a book.

They also had a very realistic display of a bunch of Portuguese kids. You can tell they’re Portuguese because they speak Portuguese (or would if they weren’t wax or whatever they were). Plus there are no blondes to be found. Plus we’re in like, uh, Portugal.

Trivia alert: Did you know that blond is for boys and blonde is for girls? And Blondie is only for comic strips.

This lady is in the back room working on her diary. So we took pictures in order to report her screwing off to management. Actually, she’s restoring a 100+ year-old book. It takes her about a month to restore the entire thing. She goes through each page, cleaning and fixing, etc. After they restore it, they throw it in a bonfire in order to reenact Tru- er, Hitler’s edicts.

Trivia alert 2: Did you know Portugal was neutral during World War II? It ended up being a strategic departure point to escape Europe. This is a big plot point in Casablanca.

Trivia alert 3: Did you know “Play it again Sam” is never spoken in that movie? All he says is, “Play it Sam.” Which is odd, because the piano player’s name was Horace.

The corner of this building is decorated by a rabbit made from trash found behind barber shops. You know, because that’s where all the hares are. Interestingly, the car is not a VW rabbit. You’d think it would be a VW rabbit-only parking zone.

We took a tram ride on, of all things, a tram. We were treated to a great view of the city, but mostly we just took it so we wouldn’t have to walk back up the 542 steps it took to get down to the river. Like Lisboa, Porto is as hilly as Kim Kardashian.

Because of all the hills, great views abound. Just not of Kim. Which is good, because I don’t particularly enjoy looking at her.

But I still had to take pictures of my companions to keep them happy.

Like so many places in Europe, a castle is a part of the skyline. Unfortunately, the knights are all dead, so it looks like it’s for sale (aluga-se means “say aluga” in Portuguese, which is their way of honking an old car horn because car horns are illegal in Portugal). Okay, I’m lying, it’s not their way of honking an old car horn. Their way of honking an old car horn is getting into an old car and being annoyed that you’re driving in front of them. And they’re not illegal. I’m reminded of that every time I drive.

Aluga-se actually means “for rent.” And the sign isn’t even for the castle. It’s for apartment below. Just cut a hole in the ceiling and you have a 24/7 view of a castle wall!

The trip showed me that while Carolyn and I are very excited to see lots of Europe, just because we visited someplace once doesn’t mean we shouldn’t go back. While I saw parts of Porto I remembered, I saw different parts of the city that I hadn’t seen before. Of course, it’s hard to see much through the bottom of a shot glass.

It’s a very pretty city, very clean, and definitely caters far more to English speakers than in Lisboa. Even the stop signs say “stop.” While that is also true for the rest of Portugal, the signs say it with a better accent there.

I’m pretty sure the sign on the right was erected by someone who just read this blog.

Anyway, the city’s climate is a little cooler than Lisbon’s, which is the main reason we didn’t settle there. That and we didn’t visit it until after we bought our house. When I saw it in a map I just thought it was showing where a very large wine store was.

So I’ll take her back sometime, and we’ll ride the tram and walk the boardwalk and probably see Douro Valley again, where the port originates. Maybe the lady will be done restoring the book by then, and I’ll get her started on my dog-eared copy of “Quackery.”

Since Carolyn is stuck in the states and as a result I am rather devoid of much in the way human contact (the Portuguese don’t count because so many of them are very short), I decided to go to the Lisbon Zoo and mingle with my fellow animals.

It’s a nice zoo- not overly large, but compares favorably to the zoo in Portland with about the same number of animals. They do have a dolphin show, which, combined with wandering around seeing all the other animals, made it a good three hour tour. A three hour tour. The weather started getting rough– oh wait, that’s a different show.

Without further ado here is the documented evidence of the visit (well, after this paragraph anyway… so there is just a bit more ado to do… and even a dodo). Thanks to baldsasquatch.com (which is this site in case you got here by accident), you can now visit The Lisbon Zoo virtually without forking over the 20.50 euro entrance fee. So send it to me. Okay I’ll discount it by half, you didn’t have to experience the smells.

20.50 euros seemed a little expensive, but some of that goes to helping animals in the wild where so many are threatened with extinction and many are going away forever. In fact, what we are seeing today is an extinction rate estimated by experts to be between 1,000 and 10,000 times higher than the natural extinction rate. So while zoos kinda suck for the animals that are in there, they do play a part in helping some of them not go the way of the dodo. I’m sad that we don’t get to see dodos anymore. It would help to see someone more stupid than– oh never mind. I won’t go there. You fill in your own damn blank.

The animals were kind enough to erect a Christmas tree for their captors in the courtyard.

These rhinos aren’t horny but they were sure hungry. They must have cut off the horns for safety. What? Excuse me? What did you think I meant?

African buffalo and American buffalo in adjoining pens. I wouldn’t bet a buffalo nickel against the American buffalo’s butt getting kicked by the African version in a fair fight. Those horns don’t play second fiddle to anyone.

I made sure the camel’s feet weren’t in the picture because, y’know, this is a family-friendly blog and all.

These cute little meerkats were interesting, in that the pen was simply a wall of glass just a few feet high. You’d think they’d jump out pretty easily. After all, it’s something any other mere cat could easily do.

Many of the animal pens had at least five or six of the same large animals in it. Which is nice. The fella on the left could just about reach me over the fence, but I’ve seen enough internet videos of the horrific slobbery mess a giraffe’s tongue can make to not stick out my neck for that risk.

Only in Portugal can you buy an apartment that overlooks the elephant pen. I wonder how they advertise it? “Included: free elephant viewing 24/7! And we promise, you’ll barely notice the smell after a while, or until your husband farts for the fifth time in an hour, whichever comes first!”

This guy is digging through the neighbors’ trash, hoping to find a discarded copy of Playelephant.

Speaking of elephants, did you know they were self aware? They conducted a study whereby they put a huge mirror in front of one. The animal proceeded to figure out that it was his (could be a hers, but we’ll just use ‘his’ to keep it simple), and began checking out parts of his body he couldn’t otherwise see! True story.

The lion exhibit was pretty decent. You can even go around to the top and look down on them from above. They were of course, as usual, just lyin’ around.

Orangutans are one of my favorite animals. They were pretty calm on this day though, except for one that was chasing around a monkey that liked to taunt him and scamper away before he got caught. Apparently monkeys drive apes ape.

The cheetah pen was fairly impressive in that they were all walking around (there was at least 6 or 7 of them) and then they’d pass right by the glass enclosure and sometimes just stand there for a second or two and stare. The newbies do that because they think they’re ordering off the menu.

Just don’t ever play poker with them, because, y’know, they’re all cheetahs.

The chimps were hugging it out… you would too if you were trapped in a cage the rest of your life.

But their play area was pretty large… plenty of room for them to monkey around. Oops, I mean ape around.

They say the great apes, like the chimps, are our closest animal relatives. About 98% of the DNA in your genes is exactly the same as in chimpanzees, making you as closely related to a chimp as horses are to zebras. That said, I’m guessing the 2% of the DNA that went missing is somehow related to picking your butt and eating your poop, as this guy is doing.

Speaking of which, did you ever notice that humans may be the only animal with a butt whereby the actual anus is sandwiched between the biggest hunks of fat the body has? It’s as if evolution (or the creator, whichever your pleasure) said, “Hey, you may be related to the chimps- but we’re going to stop that butt-picking nonsense right here and now!” Thank God for that. I hate the taste of poop.

This is obviously a female monkey because of course, she has a mop attached.

The ocelot was nowhere to be seen. I think it’s false advertising. They should be called ocenones if they’re not going to show up.

It’s around Christmastime, so of course we have to have reindeer. Never mind that this isn’t really a reindeer. It’s a deer and it almost rained, so I guess it’s an almost rained deer. This drunken Santa doesn’t care anyway; he’s obviously still recovering from his busy workday a week ago.

Okay stop it. It took me more than a few minutes to photoshop that guy behind a chain link fence, which took away from my time to make a better joke. Wait ’til next year!

Oh my Sweet Baboo– how I love you so! What? Your butt is swollen just for me? I’m so flattered!

This is an impressive enclosure for the deer… what? Deer? You build a monument befitting the king of beasts, or at the least the orangutans, and you put plain ol’ deer in there? Management! Get me a dinosaur or something!

They named this the brown bear. I’m not sure why.

It looks like he’s saying, “Yeah, I just killed ‘im, so whataya gonna do about it?”

This Grey Bird (hey, if the animal above is named a Brown Bear, I assume this is named a Grey Bird) almost coulda pecked my eye out through the fence. Fortunately, it was too big a-strich.

Dammit, I’m sorry. I’m working on the material guys. I can’t hit a homer every time. Let me have a foul ball once in a while, okay? What? All of them are foul balls? Yeah, yeah, just look at the pictures and pipe down.

These guys put on a nice show feeding the pelicans. They got right up to the fence. Of course, they were speaking Portuguese the whole time (the trainers, not the pelicans), but I laughed when everyone else did just so I could fit in.

“Hey, we break out at midnight.” “Okay.” “Hey, we break out at midnight.” “You already said that.” “Of course I did, I’m a parrot, stupid.” “Oh.” “Yeah and by the way… hey, we break out at midnight.”

Tigers are some of the coolest cats around. They sleep 16-20 hours a day. It’s almost like they’re retired like me! Sadly, there’s only about 4,000 tigers left in the wild. 4,000! I killed more flies than that in my backyard last summer! What a loss to the world it would be to have this magnificent animal become extinct.

While not overly large, the Lisbon Zoo has some nice wide boulevards. Which is good because they have a McDonalds on site as well.

Speaking of dying (because of, you know, eating at McDonalds), the zoo had a touching feature whereby they have a large graveyard dedicated to just the animals. Not sure if there are any elephants in there or not.

Certainly one of the highlights of the zoo is the dolphin exhibition. I decided to sit and watch despite the growing worldwide awareness that in order to teach them to act like trained seals, they need to virtually torture and starve them until they become dependent on their human handlers. There may not be many of these shows left after a while. Despite all that, the dolphins seemed happy, I mean, they were smiling the whole time, even after the show was over.

They also had trained seals that acted like dolphins. I was very confused. I think they did that on porpoise.

This guy is moving through the water at two dolphinpower. Which begs the question, shouldn’t boat engines be rated by dolphinpower and not horsepower? I mean, horses can swim and everything, but I’d take a ten dolphinpower engine over a ten horsepower engine any day.

After the show I decided to approach the personnel in charge and demand that I get to interact with the dolphins personally or I was going to blow this dolphin training debacle thing wide open. They said something in Portuguese that sounded like swearing, and then told me in English to get lost. So I told them I was just a stupid American (“sou Americano estupido”) and I was all alone in Portugal, even on Christmas (all alone-o em PortaGAL onno Christmasso”). That didn’t impress them either. So I gave them 100 euros and they gave me a life vest and told me to go ahead on in.

Just kiddin’, these pictures are from 2006 in Mexico. You can tell because I still have a teensy bit of hair on top, plus I’m obviously recovering from a margarita hangover.

All in all, The Lisbon Zoo is a nice zoo. I’d give it eight animal poops out of ten.

Now I can go to bed early on New Year’s Eve because I already partied like an animal.

In case you didn’t see it, Kevin & Carolyn’s episode on House Hunters International is now posted on YouTube here.

 

Before the holidays, we were curious as to how Portugal decorated for Christmas. We’re used to the all-consuming Christmas-is-everywhere in the US, but we’ve also seen some incredible displays, markets, and fairy tale villages from pictures all around Europe. We’re anxious to go see some of those next year.

Since the Portuguese are mostly a Catholic people, we assumed there would be plenty of decorations. Since Carolyn is stuck back in the US until January due to minor visa paperwork issues, I was given the task to go about town and take pictures of the decor. I first went out in the daytime, and saw mostly this:

I was a bit underwhelmed. If you look at the middle picture, you’ll see a bunch of white cones. At first I assumed they were either insect traps or some protective covering for the tree buds.

But then I was given the additional task of going back at night. And I’m glad I did. First of all, during the evening the white cones turn into a beautiful boulevard-lined display of lights:

So it’s obvious Christmas decorations here definitely are best viewed at night. There were lots of twinkly lights and displays all about town. Some of the merchants had lights or small displays, even as small (albeit humorous) as this one:

I did notice that homes generally don’t put up lights like they do in the US. I’m sure part of this, at least in Lisbon, is that most of the housing consists of multi-family dwellings. But even in Sesimbra, where there are more houses, there is little in the way of Christmas decor.

And so without further ado, here’s a collection of shots I took in Lisbon, presented in slide show format. It’s not long, a total of a couple of dozen pictures:

Many of the pictures above were taken in a mall, which was decorated from head to toe. I even discovered the mall has a skating rink, albeit sort of a miniature one (yeah, that’s the extent of it):

In what will seem at first like a very confusing segue, lot of people don’t realize that prostitution is legal in Portugal. I had to ponder that after stumbling across the below sign, knowing that “sem conta” means “without bill.” And so, I translated “bichos” the best I could, which meant that this looks like a place where the ladies maybe offer some Christmas cheer for free? I dunno:

Oh stop it. You knew I couldn’t go one blog without being irreverent. That said, “bichos” actually translates to “bugs,” and “sem” means “without,” so Apparently this is a place where bugs are allowed without bills. Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.

Anyway, there you have it. Christmas in Portugal. I’ll be all by my lonesome this Christmas, but as long as I’m in as beautiful a place like this, I’ll be fine. But I do miss minha querida (my sweetheart)! I can’t wait until she gets back. I’m only half the man I am than when I’m with her. Somehow that doesn’t translate to the same kind of weight loss though.

Merry Christmas and Feliz Natal to all!

 

I just completed a three week whirlwind tour of the Pacific Northwest, where I used to to call home. After visiting, I’m more clear than ever that our home is in Portugal. I just want to pinch Portugal’s cute little cheeks! It’s such a cute country. The U.S. is big, bad, loud, crowded, and expensive, with bullets flying everywhere. It turns out I didn’t need the flak jacket: the mass shootings for the week all happened elsewhere. But it did help keep me warm, so it wasn’t a completely wasted purchase.

Before leaving Portugal, I was emailing with another expat couple in Portgual who moved from Washington state to Porto. They challenged me to compare impressions after being out of the country for nearly a year. So I thought about it a lot while in the US.

These are the Top Three I came away with:

• Smiles and excuse me’s. While I love the Portuguese and their culture, smiling at strangers and saying “excuse me” after ramming your shopping cart into someone’s heel seems to be a purely American affectation. Especially in the retail stores. American store personnel are taught to be as friendly as possible to all customers. Portuguese store personnel act the same way as they do everywhere else. I rarely get asked if I need some help in Portugal, and catching the eye of a stranger rarely results in a smile. I think Europeans feel it’s weird to smile at a complete stranger. Almost every time I went into a store in the US, I was asked if I needed any assistance, was smiled at often (I don’t think they were doing so because I looked so odd, looking all Portuguese and everything. After all, this a time when anyone living outside the US is suspect.) and heard “excuse me” more times in one day than in the last ten months in Portugal. Of course, they would say “desculpa,” but they don’t.

Despite that, the difference between the US and Portugal reminds me of the difference between Las Vegas and any small town. Vegas is loud, brash, noisy, and every single thing that goes on there is designed to pry money out of your wallet, while making you think you’d be so much happier just because you did so. After returning from the US, I feel like all this ambient noise suddenly went away. The hustle and bustle and rush and hurry and the pervasive advertising that YOU WON’T BE HAPPY UNLESS YOU BY THIS! or LOOK HOW SEXY YOU WILL LOOK IF YOU JUST BOUGHT THIS! assaulting you everywhere you go created a thrumming in my brain. The thrumming stopped as soon as I landed in Lisbon. Coincidentally, that’s when I shut off my iPod, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.

• Sticker shock. Holy moley America is expensive! It felt like we were in London! One quick trip to Fred Meyer for a few start-up groceries netted us a bigger grocery bill than I think we’ve ever had in Portugal. It’s gonna take a few months of our cheaper living here just to recover from the monetary outflow from a visit to the states. I wonder if banks offer “expat travel to the US” loans.

• I like driving in Europe better than the US. Once upon a time, America was called the Land of the Free. Its Constitution was unique and ground-breaking, and truly established freedoms most of the world hadn’t yet seen.

However, today, it might be more accurate to call it The Land of the Lawsuit or the Land of Hyper-Safety (besides all the guns, which many Americans believe actually keep them safer, despite all the data proving otherwise). Between the fear of lawsuits and the desire to protect every single citizen from any harm, the roads in the US are chockfull of signs and rules and cops ready to ruin your day. Theoretically that’s all supposed to make you safer, but as I mentioned in a previous blog, a little research into car accident rates in Portugal vs. the US shows fewer accidents per person in Portugal. On the freeway, their speed signs and minimums, not maximums. Nary a cop is in sight to give you speeding tickets. And the freeway flows with efficiency, while in the US it’s a hodgepodge of cars and semis going different speeds in every lane. Plus the traffic. Oh meu Deus. Seattle and Portland’s freeways have become slow-moving parking lots, nearly 24 hours a day. Sure, there’s traffic in Lisbon, but it’s not everywhere all the time. I could barely handle another day of driving there.

We were treated to two separate Thanksgiving meals with both our respective families. It was great seeing all the kids and the grandkids. That’s the hardest thing about living across the ocean. However, I used to see my grandparents –who were a couple of my favorite people– every couple of years or so, and loved them all the same. Or maybe all the more precisely because I didn’t see them all the time, when their old-people-ness might start to get annoying.

Ahhh… so I am back home. I love it here. Except for the fact the Carolyn had to stay in the states because of fingerprinting problems with the FBI, meaning she has to either stay out of the country for 90 days or get her visa in the meantime, the latter of which is the plan, the FBI willing. We had to change our flights at the last minute because of all this, and elected to keep mine the same so our poor little house wasn’t sitting all alone for so long. Now I’m the one sitting here all alone for so long. But I can deal with it better than a house because a house, you know, doesn’t actually have a brain or anything. Although it sure seemed to look happy upon my return.

 

The landing in Lisbon was spectacular with clear blue skies. Our house is on that upper left peninsula there somewhere. And that’s the bridge modeled after the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. And the beautiful hodgepodge of Lisbon; our short-term rental apartment is off in the distance near the top somewhere.